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The silence employed by a recluse, thinker, the artist, and muse is a like a bastion protecting precious treasures. Instead of seeking out all that sparkles outside, why not search for what is inside; objects safely tucked away into the depths of the heart. There’s a fear, the one of a noble and slave, which dangles from my wrist like a shackle’s shattered chain – what is it, you may ask? Oh, I ponder the same.

The recluse, the thinker, the artist, and muse; why bother to be understood if that’s what you fear the most. Critically crippling, the fantastical wonders harbored wouldn’t be rubies or alexandrite but would be reduced to common salt if they were obtained and thoroughly understood, correct. Talking to myself, I wonder or is this an existential message conceived from introspection? Oh, does it matter any way? No way. It’s positively green to remain misunderstood; even if there is a single soul, one which you didn’t expect to comprehend, the outlook and value of those treasures stashed away, should they ever change?

The impossibility to learn and understand all, places security into the glass castle of the ego. Misunderstanding shouldn’t be a crutch – a hindrance to yourself and those fellow hearts; are those on the outside the only ones who misunderstand you? Doubtful. The mirror doesn’t lie; it may warp but the reflection given by its temperance is true. Glass, the wavering surface of water, or polished stone? Looked to them all, have you? But you still don’t comprehend.